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Saturday, November 25, 2017

A couple weeks ago my husband and I went to see the new film, The Florida Project. When I first saw the film’s poster in our local theater months ago, I had made a quick mental note to see it. Being as I grew up in coastal Florida, I imagined that because it was a story of Florida, it would no doubt feature the white sand and beauty of the ocean, which I miss. By the time we went to see the film, though, I knew that it was about something else entirely.

The story follows the lives of small children and their mothers or, in one case, a grandmother, who live in motels along Route 192 near Disney World, all caught in poverty, bad decisions, some form of abandonment, and hopelessness. There's not a single beach scene. But the story line also follows that of Bobby, played by Willem DaFoe, the manager of The Magic Castle, the budget motel where the film’s primary child and mother live on a weekly basis. For all the reasons to see the film based on the story line and the outstanding performance of the 7-year-old Floridian, Brooklynn Prince, whom we will no doubt be seeing more of in years to come, it’s the story of Bobby that most captured my attention.

The film’s director, Sean Baker, had been on Charlie Rose in mid-October talking about his film. He described how he had researched for the film by talking with people in the area where it was shot. In particular, he spoke of a motel manager he met:

"We would go and see who was interested in telling their stories or giving us information about the Route 192, which is where this was shot. And this was—this involved us speaking to residents at the motels, the small business owners, some the motel managers, and some the agencies that actually provided social services to people in need in the area. And there was one—there was actually one man in particular, a motel manager, who really opened up his world to us. In a way, he was our passport in. He wanted—he felt that this was a story that should be told, … and he was actually managing one of these budget motels directly across the street from the Magic Castle Motel where we shot. And he was in a very tough position when he was actually working there. It has since closed. But he had compassion for the families and the kids who were there. He understood the struggles they were going through. And, yet, he, you know, had a job. He had to hold onto. And he knew that perhaps any night he might have to evict one of these families and put them out on the street if they couldn't come up with the nightly rate. So, it was a tough position for him. I could see this obvious—this compassion, but I also saw a distance that he would keep from them. And it was like a reluctant parental figure in many ways. I saw it not only with him but a few of the other motel managers we met. And I think it very much inspired our Bobby character."

DaFoe’s character captures an aspect of work that I tried to describe in Finding Livelihood: that of doing one thing, for which you’re paid, but that may be far from what you most want to do or feel “called” to do, while at the same time also doing something far bigger on another plane, maybe all the time and all along or maybe only for a moment, participating in a for-such-a-time-as-this sort of thing. Parallel realities. Bobby kept the books, he kept the rules, he kept the place clean. Job description met! But he also kept his people safe, he guided and cared, he gave hope, he loved. If you missed the movie trailer, hyperlinked in the first sentence, take a look now and you'll get a hint of what I'm talking about.

Thursday, October 19, 2017

This past Sunday our minister's sermon was on this text from Philippians, which gives a gentle push to thoughts of a higher order.

"Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things."

I needed this reminder and perhaps you do too. These words are a touchstone that serve as not only wise guidance, but permission, yes permission, to at least occasionally turn thoughts away from the evening news, away from fears, away from sorrow, away from grievances, away from social media trivialities, away from [fill in the blank], and toward what is noble and right and pure and lovely and excellent and praiseworthy.

This morning I'm blowing the dust off something I wrote long ago. In Just Think: Nourish Your Mind to Feed Your Soul,I launched from this verse in Philippians to write a bulleted list of reasons to stock one's mind well. Here are some of the bullets in that list:

To be catalyzed, expanded, and ignited. Those of use who have battled a blah spirit and lifeless mind on one or more occasions won't find it difficult to draw a link between the state of our spirit and the state of our mind.

To stay optimistic and not lose hope or vibrancy. The world is full of wonderful things.

To link reason and imagination. To see the chasm between what is and what could be. To see possibility. To see opportunities for greatness.

To know the richness, vastness, and beauty of that which has been divinely created.

To form a solid foundation from which to launch action

To provide sufficient mental content of beauty and joy so that we are less likely to gravitate toward content of despair or fear.

To be equipped for creativity.

It's always OK to be a student of what you've already learned long ago and have needed to learn again and again. May your day be one of joy and hope. The world is full of wonderful things.

Wednesday, July 12, 2017

I've been reading M Train by Patti Smith. One of the things that has jumped out at me is her practice of choosing from among books she's already read those that she will bring along when she travels. We don't see her choosing from books on her reading list, or the best sellers pages, or an online book site. Not that she's not also reading books new to her, but when journeying, she pulls out from shelves and storage boxes those that she knows will be companions for the specific journey ahead.

Which books might you think of as travel companions?

~~~

[Photo: taken of curtains at the Bachman's Ideas House this past spring.]

Friday, July 07, 2017

Tonight I went with a long-time friend to hear Terry Tempest Williams at Magers & Quinn, Minneapolis' finest independent bookstore. She was there to talk about her book, The Hour of Land: A Personal Topography of America's National Parks, which came out last year, but also to talk about much more. You might say it was a heart-to-heart talk between Terry and the 150 or so people gathered there, whom she talked to like we were her best friends.

She said that each of us must take the gifts that are ours and sharpen them, deepen them, and use them, each in our own place. She then spoke about the need to protect our National Parks and Monuments, particularly given the current political climate. She told us that after the Civil War, Abraham Lincoln designated Yosemite as the first National Park with the rationale being that a place of such beauty could help heal a divided nation.

I haven't read the book yet, but here's a section from a peak inside the chapter on Gulf Islands National Seashore, a place in my home state of Florida:

"Heading back toward Alabama, we take a turn over Cat Island and Horn Island, part of the Gulf Island National Seashore, each of whose seven islands have been affected by the spill. But on this day we see through the emerald waters to crystalline sands. I realize it is not the devastation of the oil that has undone me, but the beauty that remains. Constellations of cownosed rays speckle the sea with brown-red diamonds. Pods of dolphins race ahead of us. Tom sees a large shark that we miss. And schools of shimmering fish congregate in the shallow turquoise waters closer to shore."

~

I'm thinking that the place to use the gifts that are ours, sharpened and deepened, isn't the same for everyone, and I am also thinking, along with Williams, that each of us has a place in cultivating or protecting something that heals, in cultivating or protecting something of beauty.

Tuesday, July 04, 2017

Three of my four grandparents were immigrants from another country, arriving here on a ship through Ellis Island. The grandparent who was born here was the daughter of parents who also were immigrants arriving on a ship. Like many U.S. cities, Minneapolis and St. Paul have a long history of being a destination site for immigrants: Swedes, Norwegians, German, Irish, Czech, Slovak, and many more. In the late 1970s, after the Vietnam war, Hmong families began to be resettled to the U.S., primarily to this area. In fact, my sons' grade school was half white and half Hmong. A Somali refugee population began to build here starting the 1990s.

Lately, I've become personally involved, for the first time, with a refugee family, a family of ten from Karen. I had never heard of Karen before this family arrived. The Karen are a group of people from Myanmar (Burma). During World War II, the Burmese sided and fought with Japan while the Karen sided and fought with Britain. Based largely on this conflict, the Myanmar government wanted the Karen out of the country. Off they went through the forest, away from their homes, to refugee camps on the border of Thailand, where some wait much longer than a decade to immigrate to another country, such as the U.S. or Canada. (Did you know an entire people group is still bearing the physical burden of WWII?) When their turn comes, the airline tickets are paid for plus a per-person resettlement fee is granted. The refugees are expected to pay this money back over time. The local coordinator of the refugee program told us that the parents of refugee families will likely never see a financial benefit or perhaps even ease in their lives, but they do it for their children's future.

I have learned that the Karen people are known for their kindness and have found this to be true. During my first visit to their apartment, the Karen mother cooked and fed the three of us who were visiting a multi-course Karen meal and gave us each a traditional Karen woven skirt and blouse. As you can see in the picture at the top of this post, it is a thing of beauty. This woman could speak no English and owns very little, yet with a deep and true smile, gave us what she had.

This afternoon, my husband and I are going to visit the Karen family for an Independence Day celebration. I'm bringing watermelon and will wear at least part of the Karen clothing I received as a gift. My daughter-in-law (the key friend and helper of this family, giving so much of her time!) and son will bring other treats, as will a third family. Even while these refugees are working hard to learn the language and figure out how to earn a living, all while still being a family and caring for daily needs and finding friends, they are modeling what it is to be free and brave, and importantly, kind.

Thursday, May 11, 2017

Lately I've been revisiting what St. Ignatius referred to as consolations and desolations. Thinking about and identifying occurrences of each over the course of a day is suggested as a spiritual practice to help a person understand how God is moving in his or her life. Some instruction I've heard on this practice, however, makes it seem like nothing more than taking a minute at the end of a day to write down what made you feel good and what made you feel bad, as if God has the same work in you as would an overindulgent grandparent whose only goal was to make you happy.

"I call consolation every increase of hope, faith and charity [love], and all interior joy which calls and attracts to heavenly things and to the salvation of one's soul, quieting it and giving it peace in its Creator and Lord."

On desolation:

"I call desolation all the contrary of the [above], such as darkness of soul, disturbance in it, movement to things low and earthly, the unquiet of different agitations and temptations, moving to want of confidence, without hope, without love, when one finds oneself all lazy, tepid, sad, and as if separated from his Creator and Lord."

Hope, faith, and love–oh, and interior joy. Yes, please; more of those.

~~~

[Photo: taken several years ago of a statue depicting St. Loyola's "Examen" at Fairfield University in Fairfield, Connecticut (sculptors: Jeremy Leichman and Joan Benefiel).

Thursday, May 04, 2017

A couple days ago something jumped out at me from an email. The email was from Poets & Writers website/magazine and identified stories of interest to click through and read. The thing that jumped was in the paragraph about the first story, in which Parul Sehgal, senior editor and columnist at the New York Times Book Review, was being interviewed.

Here’s what she said:

"There's something Cezanne said that I think about a lot, something like, 'I know what I am looking at, but what am I seeing?' That's what reviewing feels like to me. It's very much to 're-view,' to see again, to try to see farther and see deeper."

Sehgal was speaking there as a book reviewer, but what she said seems to me a habit for living as an attentive person, regardless of occupation: to try to see and not just look, to try to see farther, to try to see deeper.

Wednesday, March 01, 2017

About 20 years ago – or was it longer? – I took a class taught by a Protestant minister, the father of a good friend, about the devotional classics. We learned about and read from Thomas Kelly (A Testament of Devotion), Brother Lawrence (The Practice of the Presence of God), Thomas a Kempis (The Imitation of Christ), Saint Augustine (Confessions), John Bunyan (Pilgrim’s Progress), Dietrich Bonhoeffer (Life Together), as well as William Law (A Serious Call to a Devout and Holy Life).

Law was an English cleric and devotional writer from the 18th century. Based on the book’s title, it sounds oh so heavy, but Law lightened it substantially by crafting his book using fictitious stories following characters named Classicus, Octavius, Miranda, and more as they learn the importance of intention. A much younger “me” wrote the book’s key message on its first page: “We aren’t where we want to be because we never intended to be. Commitment of will.” The lesson of intention delivered by this book resonated with me all those years ago and it resonates with me now. I still have things to learn from it.

The book’s lesson came to me again the last couple of weeks as I read The Year of Small Things: Radical Faith for the Rest of Us, written by Sarah Arthur (who I’ve written about here and here) and Erin F. Wasinger, and published by Brazos Press. The Year of Small Things tells the story of how Sarah and Erin and their husbands intentionally became “communal friends” and together committed themselves to adopt, cumulatively over the course of a year, the twelve spiritual disciplines typically associated with new monasticism, with some adaptations for their young families. They began in August with their covenantal friendship, continued into September with hospitality and October with radical finances. Late fall and winter focused on spiritual habits, possession, holy time, and vows. Spring brought the practices of congregational life, teaching children, and sustaining creation. The start of summer brought self-care and justice.

Not all of us will move to the inner city or live with the homeless or protest unjust laws before city councils. Some of us will do just one of those things; a few of us might do several. But many of us are called to try this radical thing right where we are, facing our current battles and barriers, one day at a time. Mother Teresa is often quoted as saying, “We can do no great things, only small things with great love.” Well, that’s all we’ve got. Small changes, small acts of hospitality, small attempts at solidarity with “the least of these.” This is what our families, with help from some wise friends and our local church, attempted over the course of one year, taking notes as we went. We hope that others, like you, will not only rejoice with us but give it a shot.

Although this gem of a book claims the word “discernment” as its guiding word, I think the stories of these two families could have the word “intention” as the watermark on every page. I was moved by all they intended and how they did what they intended.

Reading the story of the Arthurs and the Wasingers, you may not – or you may – join them in committing to the same spiritual practices, but my guess is at the very least you will close the book, like me, with some response in mind. An idea. An idea that will become an intention that will become an action that might change your life and someone else’s too.

“Far from my high school daydreams about the future, I am on a search for daily meaning as well as for daily bread, for living rather than dying. I want to cast my net on the side of astonishment.... I want to find God at work in me and through me. I want livelihood.

Livelihood: the word gathers up and bundles together the simultaneous longings for meaning, satisfaction, and provision. In the fullest sense of the word, livelihood means the way of one’s life; it means the sustenance to make that way possible; it means both body and soul are fully alive thanks to what has been earned or received by grace. On one level we make our livelihood; on another level we keep our eyes open and find it.”

–Nancy J. Nordenson, Finding Livelihood: A Progress of Work and Leisure (Kalos Press)

By day I'm a medical writer. After hours I do another kind of work. Creative writing, spiritual writing, essaying. This blog arises from those after hours. I write about work/vocation, meaning, hope, imagination, faith, science, creativity/writing, books, and anything else I feel the impulse to write about. I hope these short posts provide camaraderie for your own creative and spiritual life.